Sunday Morning

                   Sunday Morning


Not a working day, historically a “day of rest”

A day made sacred by the opportunity to worship

That illusive God, hidden, yet deists say all-pervasive

Perhaps in the peace today we might discover Him

At the appointed hour the remnant of adherents

To the faith of old, gather in their sanctuary

Not really full of expectation, but hope still rises

Perhaps somehow the Presence will be manifested

Why do they still gather, why follow this threadbare custom

Why not clothe their lives with a newer vision?

Because not only habit dies hard, but deeper longing

For comfort, for peace, for forgiveness still lingers

Forgiveness for what? For their sins, of course

Do these fragile bodies bear the scars of carnal sin?

Have they not lived out their lives in love and service?

Yes indeed, but echoes of Augustine’s doctrine still haunt

All have sinned, even these kindly souls, and in their hearts

They must confess, and seek reconciliation with their God

Surely they will find blessedness and comfort

As they open their hearts in prayer and confession

But they come together not only to expiate

They gather to bring their worship and adoration

On the lips of young, but mainly old throughout this land

Praise still rises from lips to that God who loves each one

And the hour of worship affords us time to hear again

The reading of the ancient scriptures, the wisdom,

the poetry, the stories of God’s peoples down the years

And the message of His sacrifice and saving grace for each and all

And as the time of worship draws to a close

We bless each other in the benediction

And the calm order of the service gives way

As we commune in joy with tea and cakes!


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